Kirwan Henry



The finally still

Eventually there were too many roosters. Mum lit the fire and loaded the woodstove with silver pots that hissed and steamed like hungry machines. Dad waited by the woodshed while we became foxes, caught flapping bodies as bright as beetle …

Posted in 116: REMEMBER | Tagged

In dreams

my daughter walks through the woods unhooded no basket or breadcrumbs she strays from the path snaps free sugared fretwork from frosted windows wipes hands on the hide of a wolf trimmed to fit her its teeth a stringed toy …

Posted in 112: TREAT | Tagged